


No Man's Land

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Post-Apocalypse, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4412003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out here it's every woman for herself. That's a whole lot of people who could use a whole lot of help. The perfect place to find redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, the fic that must inevitably come of   
> [my ladyformers ramblings on Tumblr](http://full-autopsy.tumblr.com/tagged/no-man%27s-land). Humanized, everyone is a lady unless specified otherwise, and of course starring the OTP.

            The evening sun sank slowly towards the horizon, staining the sky in brilliant oranges and reds. At least one good thing came of the pollutants poisoning the air after six years of war.

            Heat shimmered off the red sandstone of the canyon floor just outside the hidden gate to the Crystal City. Inside, Zephyr and Forge had doorwarden duty. The tall black hilts of Great Swords rose over their shoulders.

            They weren’t expecting company. Zephyr turned curiously at the sound of footsteps.

            “Hey, Wing. Keeping us company?”

            “Some other time,” Wing said. “How’s the weather topside?”

            “Same as usual,” Zephyr said, glancing at the readouts from meteorology. “Hot with a chance of sandstorms. Toxicity levels high. What a lovely day.”

            Wing hummed acknowledgement. She fastened a breather mask over her nose and mouth and pulled up her hood, tucking in her long braid. “I’ll be back by morning.”

            She was already at the tunnel by the time Zephyr turned, frowning. “Wing—”

            “Let her go,” Forge said, putting a hand on her arm.

            “Dai Atlas won’t like it. Not after the battle.”

            Forge hit the controls to open the hidden door. The gem of Wing’s sword winked in the red light as she went outside.

            “Wing knows what she’s doing,” she said.

 

* * *

 

            Even with the sun going down, the air was still hot and dry as ever. Wing’s mask kept out the air toxins, something they had huge pumps for inside the City. Once upon a time they had been able to venture outside without breather masks, but these days the air was too harmful more often than not. Just another symptom of the war between Autobots and Decepticons that had left their world a stricken wasteland. Martial law kept relative order in the territories controlled by each faction, but out here in the no-man’s land, every town looked out for itself. Marauders and slavers roamed freely in the absence of a true government—there hadn’t been one since the Decepticons toppled the Senate six years ago—preying on lone travelers and weaker towns that couldn’t afford protection.

            Not every place could be like the Crystal City.

            By the time the sun went down Wing had left the canyon and passed into the desert. The barren land was studded with rock formations which reared their dark heads against the gathering stars. To the untrained eye the landscape all looked the same: sand, scrub, and rocks, the occasional insect or lizard. But Wing had been wandering this part of the desert for years now. This place was as familiar to her as Iacon had been, once.

            When the moon cleared the horizon she had more than enough light to make her way through the outcroppings, staying extra quiet. Better paranoid than dead. Braid might have sent patrols out farther than usual after the battle, hoping to capture any forgotten survivors.

            The slavers had set up their encampment in this area a few months back. There were unaligned towns nearby, and a fairly steady supply of travelers between them. Perfect prey for slavers. Wing had yet to convince Dai Atlas to act: if they weren’t a threat to the City, it wasn’t worth risking lives.

            But she hadn’t explicitly forbidden Wing from risking her _own_ life. So for the past few months she had waged her own intimate war on Braid and her crew. First it had been reconnaissance, back when she still hoped to persuade Dai Atlas. She had identified Braid, the slavers’ leader; she had gauged their numbers and their weapons, their combat readiness, their discipline. She had memorized their camp’s layout, studied their pattern of behavior.

            Then she had moved on to action. In the long reaches of the night, when the duty guards were drowsy, she had ventured into the camp itself. She had scattered supplies for scavenging animals, sabotaged lights and equipment. She had even tried to get close enough to free captives, but had never succeeded: once Braid realized there was someone haunting the camp, she’d increased her security.

            Once the slavers had caught sight of her, things escalated. It became apparent that acts of sabotage would not drive them away, and the slavers attacked her on sight. She’d even whittled down their numbers by killing some of their sentries when they came after her. But there always seemed to be more of them.

            Voices made Wing duck behind a rock. At this distance she could hear shouting, though the words were indistinct. She drew both her short swords and dashed silently towards the commotion.

            It was Braid’s slavers, sure enough: six of them and a stranger they had cornered against the sandstone rock face. Her battle-scarred armor was badly damaged, missing in places, and she held herself like a wounded wolf, favoring one arm. The purple Decepticon insignia glared out of her chest, matching the faded streaks in the choppy white hair pulled back into a battered ponytail. She wielded a knife in her good arm, holding back the slavers. But it was clear her only advantage was that they weren’t trying to kill her. She wouldn’t last long against the six.

            Wing didn’t stop to think. Decepticon or not, she had no love for slavers, and she wasn’t one to sit by when someone—even a stranger—was in danger. She vaulted out of cover, drawing both swords, and joined the fight without a sound. She killed one before they realized she was there, a second who tried to grab her from behind. The Decepticon spared her a glance as the slavers broke off their attack to regroup. She wasn’t wearing a mask—she might have lost it at some point, which might explain why she seemed so weak—and her lean brown-skinned face was twisted in suspicion and exhaustion. A white scar at her lip lent her snarl more weight.

            “Back off,” Wing warned the slavers with a sweep of a sword. Braid’s skull-painted mask grinned at her as the poison-green eyes above it narrowed in hate.

            “Look who it is,” she said. “Our mystery knight. You’ve got in my way for the last time, sweetheart. Rush them!”

            Braid herself and one of her cronies leapt at Wing while the other two went again after the Decepticon. Wing held her attackers off—they weren’t trying to kill _her_ , either, but they seemed less concerned about damaging her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Decepticon finally go down and her old training took over. Her focus shifted. It was a different style of fighting, protecting someone else, but how easily her body fell back into that rhythm. A third slaver fell to her blades and she made a false charge, driving the three back.

            “You think you’re getting away this time?” Braid challenged, licking her blade as the three took a breather. Wing took the opportunity to scoop the unconscious soldier onto her shoulder. The other woman was weighed down by armor. This would _not_ be easy. “Aww, sweet of you to carry her for us.”

            Wing saved her breath on a response and slashed out with her free arm, catching the rightmost slaver by surprise and wounding her. She used the precious few seconds that bought to run.

            The Decepticon’s weight slowed her down as the sand shifted and flew under her feet, but she found footing on the rocks and climbed. She’d scaled the Citadel Spire with a pack full of rocks, she could manage this little hill carrying a woman on her back.

            A hand grabbed her ankle, nearly yanking her off the rock. She kicked back and heard a crack—probably someone’s mask. Braid cursed violently. Good—it would buy them another minute while she probably grabbed one of her partners’. A piercing whistle split the night, Braid calling for backup from the main camp. The hunt was up.

            Wing knew every rock and ditch of this territory from her nighttime wanderings. As soon as she had disappeared from sight she put her knowledge to its best use, dodging and weaving, ducking around boulders and through crevices. There was no time to do anything about the blood trail that followed them in irregular splotches. She adjusted her hold on the Decepticon and kicked sand over the spots she could see before seeking a hiding place. Flashlights flickered here and there as Braid’s crew searched, but Wing had already hauled her unconscious charge up a short climb to a hidden cave. She dragged the Decepticon in after her. It was a cramped fit.

            In the dim moonlight, Wing felt for the Decepticon’s neck. The pulse was ragged and faint. She needed medical attention, and soon. In the meantime there was only so much Wing could do. She pushed her hood back and unfastened her mask. She tilted the Decepticon’s head back and pressed the mask over her nose and mouth to give her clean air. An hour’s worth of air toxins wouldn’t kill Wing, but no telling how long this Decepticon had gone.

            This territory was well into the no-man’s land, unaligned with either Autobots or Decepticons. Usually both sides fought for more valuable land far from here, but yesterday there had been an unexpected battle: Autobots and Decepticons clashed, killed, and retreated to lick their wounds. This soldier must have been left for dead.

            The soldier stirred against her and groaned faintly. Her eyes glinted in the dark. Something was strange about them, but it was too dark to see properly as the Decepticon squinted up at her.

            “Who the frag are you?” she rasped.

            “I’m a friend,” Wing whispered. “Shh!”

            She put a finger to her lips as voices came from outside.

            “—get my hands on her she’s gonna be _worse_ than dead.” That was Braid’s voice, muffled by a new mask. “I’ll stake her to her own damn sword and cut off little bits for buzzard food. I’ll prick her full of shattersnake venom til she claws her own skin off. I’ll rip out her eyes and shove ‘em down her throat. Then I’ll stick what’s left in a bag full of scorpions and throw her in the fuckin’ canyon.”

            The threats would have been comical if Braid hadn’t sounded so deadly serious. Wing’s nighttime excursions to her camp, and the accompanying sabotage, had made her a hated enemy. Someday they would have to make an end to it.

            “No use, chief. She’s got away.”

            “No, she’s gone to ground somewhere. She can’t have got far hauling the Decepticon. Look for the blood trail.”

            “You really think we can sell the ‘con?”

            “I know Autobots who’d pay good money for a ‘con no one’ll miss.”

            “Didn’t think ‘bots were into that sort of thing. ‘Freedom is the right of lah de dah….’”

            “You gotta know the right circles,” Braid said with a dark chuckle.

            The voices and crunching footsteps passed under their hiding place and faded out. Wing let out a slow breath and looked down at the Decepticon. She’d passed out again. Better she didn’t know the fate the slavers had in mind for her.

            She waited for what felt like hours while the slavers searched the area. Every few minutes she switched the mask to her own face, taking a few gulps of clean air. The Decepticon’s pulse beat stubbornly on under her fingers, though she didn’t wake up again. She was hanging on, but Wing needed to get her back to the City, and _soon_.

            Finally, when there had been no searchers in the area for a while, Wing risked movement. She checked that the coast was clear and pulled the Decepticon down from the cramped cave. The going was slightly easier now that she was rested and not trying to run. She settled the soldier over her shoulder and moved stealthily through the rocky waste, towards the canyon.

            Braid’s search must have moved to a different area. She kept one sword drawn in case of an ambush lying in wait, but there were no slavers to be seen. The sky was getting lighter as she picked her way into the deeper canyon, her back beginning to ache under the heavy load. Her lungs were starting to burn as she panted for air.

            The doorwardens spotted her before she even reached the hidden gate. Red dust drifted down as the door ground open and Volt came to meet her.

            “Wing? What is this? Where’s your mask? Who is she?”

            “Help me carry her,” Wing said hoarsely. Her legs shook with strain but she stayed upright as Volt supported half the Decepticon’s weight. “We need to get her to medical, fast. Questions can wait.”

 

* * *

 

            The Decepticon disappeared into Redline’s surgery. Wing sat on one of the beds in the medbay, enduring a swift examination as well. The fight against Braid and the slavers had left her miraculously uninjured, but she was exhausted. Redline’s assistant shoved a breathing apparatus at her with orders to sit still and use it for half an hour while the vapor cleansed her lungs of toxins.

            She sat obediently, too tired to argue or escape, even if she’d wanted to venture too far from her charge. The white medbay shimmered and swayed around her as she dozed sitting up, but it wasn’t long before the door burst open. Redline’s assistant poked her head out of the surgery, ready to snap at whoever had made such an abrupt entrance, saw who it was, and retreated quickly. She didn’t want to get in the middle of this.

            “What’s going on?” Dai Atlas demanded, striding down the medbay with Axe at her shoulder. “What’s this I hear about you bringing in a Decepticon?”

            Wing lowered the mask to argue properly. “She was being attacked by slavers, Dai Atlas. She was injured. I brought her here for help.”

            She stood to place herself between Dai Atlas and the surgery door. Not that she would be much of a barrier. Dai Atlas was a full head taller than Wing, and in a towering rage, very little would get in her way. The former senator still had the bearing of one who must be obeyed.

            “Unacceptable,” Dai Atlas thundered. “She needs to leave.”

           “Are you going to tear her from under Redline’s knife and throw her in the canyon to die?” Wing challenged, standing her ground. “She needs medical attention.”

            “Soldiers die every day!”

            “Dai,” Axe said sharply. Slightly shorter than Dai Atlas but even more powerfully built, she was one of the few in the City who could face down Dai Atlas in a temper.

            Dai Atlas seemed to realize she had crossed a line. When she spoke again, it was in her normal tones, rather than an shout, though she was still angry.

            “You shouldn’t have brought her here. What if the Decepticons come looking for her? What if the _Autobots_ come looking for her?”

            “I couldn’t stand by and watch her be taken,” Wing said. “And I couldn’t leave her to die.”

            “Wing.” Dai Atlas pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Autobots and Decepticons respect our right to neutrality as long as we _do not interfere_. If we take in an injured soldier it could endanger that.”

            “Our doors are open to anyone who needs help,” Wing argued. “That’s our code, or has it changed recently?”

            Dai Atlas drew in a breath, working up to a shout again, but Axe laid a hand on her arm and the other on Wing’s shoulder.

            “Enough,” she said. Dai Atlas shut her mouth and Wing bit down the arguments she had prepared. Axe had that effect. “You both have a point. But the Decepticon is here now, and there’s no need to argue about what Wing should have done, or not done. Before we go any further, why not wait until she wakes up and find out what _she_ wants?”

            Wing looked down, sheepish. She hadn’t meant to make the Decepticon a prop in her ongoing tug-of-war with Dai Atlas.

            The City’s leader pulled an unhappy face, but nodded.

          “Axe is right,” she said wearily. “What’s done is done. I understand why you felt the need to bring her here.”

            “I apologize for putting us at risk,” Wing said quietly. “I didn’t consider the danger to the City.”

            Dai Atlas sighed. “Was she alone?”

            “They left her behind,” Wing said. “For all the Decepticons know, she’s dead.”

            Another sigh. “Have Redline call me when she wakes up. We’ll discuss her fate, and your penance.” She spoke in a gentler tone. “As a knight, I can’t _stop_ you from going out there. But is it worth the risk of endangering yourself and the City? What do you hope to find?”

            Wing looked down at the breather mask in her hands. Her old life crept up behind her, casting a shadow over her future here.

            “Redemption.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift wakes up.

            It wasn’t the searing pain she’d expected, just a low, pervasive ache through her entire body.

            _Must have been some battle_ , she thought muzzily, but something felt wrong with that. Just from lying there and feeling it, she knew her armor was gone, replaced by loose light clothes and bandages. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember getting back to the others. Come to think of it, she remembered—

            Drift opened her eyes. She squinted against the white lightstrip laid into a ceiling that was the wrong color.

            _Where the—_

            Slowly, to avoid attracting attention from anyone in the room, she turned her head. It had all the trappings of a medbay. Beds, readouts, shelves, all of it spotlessly clean. In the corner she could see a door with a red quarantine marker on it. She looked the other way. Instantly she fell still, snapping her eyes shut. There was a person sitting on the next bed.

            She cautiously cracked her eyes open. The other woman wasn’t looking her way, so Drift took the opportunity to study her. She couldn’t see an insignia, Autobot or Decepticon, on her light armor, but it might be on her far side. Slanted eyes, a flattish nose, hair twisted into a long braid down her back. There was something vaguely familiar about her.

            As if on instinct, the other woman turned her head and caught Drift staring before she could pretend to be asleep. She smiled and turned on the bed to sit facing Drift. Still no insignia.

            “How do you feel?”

            “Who the frag are you?” Drift’s voice came out whispery and cracked.

            “I’m Wing. Hold on.” The woman stood and flitted to the wall, then returned with a cup. “Here. Can you sit up?”

            Something about the way she moved rang a bell. All at once Drift remembered the dark night, red sandstone formations, a woman in a skull mask coming for her. The stranger appearing.

            “It was you,” she rasped. “What happened?”

            “We got away.”

            “Don’t remember that.”

            “Probably because you were passed out.”

            Drift’s lip curled. Somehow she didn’t like the idea of lying there like so much dead weight while some pretty little stranger did all the work. She glared down into the cup.

            “It’s clean,” Wing said. Not all water out here was safe to drink, but Drift was thirsty enough to trust her. She still took a testing sip to verify for herself that it at least _tasted_ clean before swallowing it in three short gulps.

            “Were you in the battle?” Wing asked carefully after a minute. Drift grunted. Yeah, she was in the battle. Left behind a lot of buzzard food, too.

            Speaking of…

            “Why were you alone? Were you… left behind?” Wing ventured.

            Turmoil. _Misbegotten spineless shattersnake wormfeed!_ Drift’s fingers trembled as they squeezed the cup, wishing it were Turmoil’s throat. _Thinks she can get rid of me that easy? When I get back there I don’t care_ what _Megatron says, I’m gonna tear out her throat and show them how a_ real _Decepticon leads a garrison_.

            “You an Autobot?” she asked. Wing shook her head. “Well, you’re no Decepticon, or you’d know we never abandon one of our own.” She snorted, smoldering into her cup. “Unless you’re Turmoil.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours. Where are we?”

            “The Crystal City.”

            Drift’s mouth twitched into a scowl as she racked her memory. “Isn’t that some kind of church?”

            “It’s a sanctuary,” Wing said. “For anyone who needs it, no matter their beliefs. Or non-beliefs.”

            “Why’d you bring me here?”

            “You needed help.”

            “I would have been fine,” Drift growled. She slapped the empty cup down and levered herself upright. Wing stirred, rising from the bed with her hands already moving to discourage her. Drift slapped them away. “Time to go.”

            “You’re hurt,” Wing warned. “You shouldn’t go anywhere until you’re healed.”

            “I never asked for _sanctuary_ ,” Drift spat. Despite her willpower, her body just wasn’t cooperating. It melted like putty under Wing’s gentle hand, her overtaxed muscles turning to water and dumping her back on the bed as a bolt of pain zinged from the bandages on her ribs. Sheer stubbornness kept her arguing even when it was clear she couldn’t get up. “I’ve got scores to settle. First those slavers, then Turmoil. I’m leaving this place, _right now_.”

            “The first sensible idea I’ve heard today,” a new voice said. Drift’s raised voice had attracted more people: a woman in a medic’s uniform emerged from an inner door, while on the opposite side of the room, two taller women came striding in. The one in the lead looked at Drift like something that came in on the bottom of a shoe. Drift hated her already.

            She looked at Wing. “Who’s she?”

            Wing opened her mouth, but the other woman spoke over her.

            “Dai Atlas. I’m in charge here. Who are you, Decepticon?”

            “None of your damn business,” Drift snapped.

            Dai Atlas took a sharp breath, working up to a bellow.

            “Please,” Wing said quietly. “I answered your questions.”

            Drift scoffed, but she knew an opening when she saw one. She jerked her thumb at Wing. “I’m only talking to _her_.”

            What name to give them. She wouldn’t put it past neutrals—especially hostile ones like Dai Atlas—to sell her off to the Autobots to pump for information. Deadlock was someone worth having hostage—ranking officer, killcount in the dozens, Megatron’s favorite; Drift was a nobody, a name that hadn’t been used in years. So, reluctantly, she sacrificed her real name to them.

            “It’s Drift.”

            “Why did you come here?”

            Drift didn’t respond. Dai Atlas scowled. “ _Answer_.”

            “You hear something?” Drift asked Wing.

            Wing sighed. “Why did you come here?”

            “Because you dragged me. Next?”

            Dai Atlas made a furious move forward, but the woman at her side put a hand on her elbow and drew her back.

            “She means ‘you’ the Decepticons. Why was there a battle so close?” Wing clarified. “There’s nothing of value here except… us.”

            “Is there any threat to the city?” the other woman, Dai Atlas’s handler, asked.

            “We didn’t know about this place,” Drift said.

            She didn’t say _We came because I wanted to. We saw Autobots and I made the call. All Turmoil wanted me to do was hang back, wait, watch, like a coward._

_Cowards don’t win wars._

            She guessed that probably had something to do with why Turmoil was so eager to leave her for dead.

            “Will they come looking for you?” Dai Atlas asked. Drift said nothing until Wing sighed and repeated the question. “This is _childish_ —”

            Drift shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” She’d like to think she was valuable enough to the cause that _someone_ would come after her. Even if Turmoil tried to pass her off as dead, maybe Megatron would send someone.

            _Wishful thinking_ , a nasty little voice said in the back of her mind. _You think you’re special, just because Megatron pulled you out of a crowd one day, gave you a scary name? You think you’re any more than just another soldier to her? Face it. Nobody cares that you’re gone._

            “Drift, is it?” the big woman said, holding out a hand. “I’m Axe.” Drift ignored the hand but nodded grumpy acknowledgement. “All we really need to know is your intentions. What do _you_ want?”

            “I want to leave,” Drift said.

            “ _Good_ ,” Dai Atlas said.

            “But—!” Wing began. Axe cut them both off with a look.

            “This is the middle of no-man’s land,” she said to Drift. “If you plan on returning to Decepticon territory…”

            “After I deal with those scavengers who attacked me.”

            “Especially then. The desert is a dangerous place. Your armor is damaged, your weapons are lost, and you are alone and wounded. Do you think you would survive fighting marauders? Do you think you would survive the journey back to Decepticon territory?”

            “Only one way to find out,” Drift said. She was a survivor. Always had been, since way back in Rodion.

            Still. The odds looked pretty bleak when Axe put it like that.

            “Let’s check with our medic,” Axe said. “Redline? What do you have to say to that?”

            The medic, silent until now, frowned at Drift. “You nearly died. We spent the better part of eleven hours putting you back together. You’ll find standing and walking difficult for a while, let alone running and fighting. A hostile environment like the desert will only exacerbate your injuries. If I had my way you wouldn’t go _anywhere_ for at least two weeks.”

            “Two _weeks_?” Drift burst out.

            “At _least_ ,” the medic repeated firmly.

            “I’m _not_ sticking around here for—”

            “This is unacceptable! She needs to leave as soon—”

            “If she goes out there she’ll _die_ —”

            “Thank you, Redline,” Axe said loudly, and the outbursts subsided.

            Drift sulked, not looking at anyone. Not that she’d admit it, but even this much activity—the sitting up and the shouting—was making her exhausted. It felt like the weight of a small child was hanging off her ribs, swinging back and forth. How long _would_ she survive on her own out there?

            “This is what I suggest,” Axe said. “Drift stays here until Redline is satisfied that she’s healed enough for the desert. We will repair her armor. When and if she decides to leave—”

            “When,” Drift muttered.

            “—we will provide weapons and supplies to improve her chances. Is that agreeable?”

            Dai Atlas looked unhappy, but said nothing. Wing nodded. Redline’s mouth thinned into an uncertain slash, but she finally nodded too. They all looked at Drift.

            “Fine,” she mumbled. The medic was right, anyway. She wouldn’t last a day in the desert. She wouldn’t win any fights against scavengers or Turmoil. At least this way she got her armor fixed up. She could endure a couple of weeks going stir-crazy, as long as she didn’t think too hard about what she was missing.

            Axe gave Dai Atlas a rather smug smile. The taller woman pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh, then pointed at Wing.

            “This was your idea, so let it be your problem. You will look after this Decepticon. If she breaks our laws she will face our justice. I will hold you responsible for her.”

            “Understood,” Wing said.

            “And you will report to me at the earliest convenience. There is still the matter of your penance.

            “Understood,” Wing said again, with the barest trace of sullenness.

            Dai Atlas gave Drift a last sour look before stalking out. Axe patted Wing’s shoulder and followed.

            Wing looked at Redline. “Is she cleared to leave the medbay?”

            “Yes,” Drift growled, swinging a leg over the side of the bed.

            “ _No_ ,” Redline snapped. “Lie back down this instant.”

            It was never a good idea to argue with a medic. Drift relaxed onto the sheets with only a rebellious mutter.

            “We had to replace some bone and tissue with synthetics,” Redline said. “I need to run a few tests to make sure it’s integrating properly. Then, _maybe_ , you can leave the medbay.”

            Drift grumbled, but kept it to a minimum while Redline and her assistant scanned parts of her arm, torso, and hip. Wouldn’t be the first synthetic replacements she’d had—Deadlock wasn’t exactly known for being _careful_ in a fight.

            “There,” Redline said, finally, after Drift had been lying there for another full hour. Wing was sitting out of the way, waiting silently, but she came over when Redline spoke. “It’s going smoothly for now. You can take her home, but no strenuous activity. Don’t even walk far. Bring her back in the morning.”

            “I’m sitting right here,” Drift reminded them.

            “I want to see you every morning for the first three days,” Redline said. “After that we can make it every two.”

            Drift groaned.

          “You can’t be too careful with synthetics,” Redline lectured. “As a soldier, I would expect you to know this.”

            “All right,” Drift grumbled. “Fine.”

            Redline retreated to her office and the assistant moved around, putting away equipment. Wing came to offer Drift a hand up. Drift ignored her, planting both feet on the floor and using the bed to stand up. She took a swaying step and angrily brushed aside Wing’s hand.

            “I can walk. Don’t hover. So, Sister Wing, looks like you’re my babysitter.”

            The other woman smiled. “I’m not a sister.”

            “What are you, then?” Drift took it one step at a time. It got easier as her balance returned, though the ache started to spread up her legs.

            “I’m a knight.”

            “And that’s…?”

            “I defend the city.”

            “From?”

            “Threats.”

            Drift snorted. “And you brought _me_ here.”

            Wing smiled at her again. “You’re not a threat.”

            “ _What_?!” Drift squawked. “I am so! I could be if I wanted to! Just wait til I’m out of all these—fucking—bandages—”

            “Let’s keep that between us,” Wing said, more amused than threatened.

            The minute they walked out of the medbay Drift stopped short, catching a glimpse of light and dark and steel through the archways before them. She ignored the elevator and went out onto the balcony for a better look.

            Packed into the immense, well-lit cavern was a miniature city. Her eyes tracked upward from the people on the streets three stories below to the tall, narrow buildings, to the red sandstone cavern ceiling.

            “Is it _all_ underground?” she asked. Wing came up beside her.

            “Mostly,” she said. “The air is cleaner down here.”

            No arguing with that. Most permanent Decepticon compounds were primarily underground for the same reason. She turned, leaning back against the balcony to try to get a good look at this building. Its rounded white face climbed up to the ceiling. The cavern formed a loose U-shape with this edifice at the center. The balcony wrapped around to their right, towards another part of the building.

            “This is the Citadel,” Wing explained.

            “Center of operations?”

            “More or less.” Wing didn’t offer any more than that. Not spilling all their secrets that easily. Not to a Decepticon.

            “What’s that?” Drift nodded towards a white tower at the nearest cavern wall.

            “The Crystal Spire,” Wing said. “And below it, the temple to the Guiding Hand. That’s the oldest part of the City.”

            “I knew this was a church.”

            “The City was founded as a convent a long, long time ago. But more was added over time, and with this war—it’s become more like a refugee camp.”

            “Not like any ‘refugee camp’ I’ve ever seen,” Drift scoffed. Looked too impressive for that.

            “People come here when they have nowhere else to go,” Wing said. “The knights protect them.”

            “From what? You ever been attacked?”

            “Not in this war. So far both factions have respected our neutrality.”

            “So far,” Drift murmured. “Self-sustaining, defensible position, lots of people. It’s ripe for the picking.”

            “Not while I’m breathing,” Wing said. She was still smiling, but there was extra steel in her voice, and her eyes were hard as she swept them across the city again. “I’ll show you around later. Come downstairs.”

            They took a silent elevator ride to the next floor. Drift scratched at her bandages. She’d barely been standing up for a few minutes and she already felt tired. She scowled—she didn’t want to stick around any longer than she had to.

            “The knights live on these floors,” Wing explained when they stepped out into a hallway.

            “How many’ve you got?”

            “A few,” Wing said vaguely. “Here’s mine.”

            They entered through a little kitchen into a fairly large room equipped with a bed, some shelves, and a closet. A bathroom door stood open on the far end of the wall. A training mat took up most of the space in the center of the floor. Drift took it all in in a glance. It was about the same size as her quarters back at Turmoil’s command, and she’d worked hard to earn that space—most grunt-level soldiers shared crowded barracks. But she’d never had windows like Wing.

            “You can take the bed tonight,” Wing said. “I’ll sleep on the floor. Tomorrow I’ll find a cot or something for you, and somewhere to put your things.”

            “I don’t have anything.”

            “For the things you’re going to have at some point,” Wing said. “We’ll find you some real clothes, for one.”

            Drift glanced down at the light medical wear. That might be nice.

            “The bathroom’s over there when you need it. Better not shower yet until we clear it with Redline, but you can wash off in the sink. I’ll get an extra towel. Hungry?”

            “I guess.” Not really, but that was just the surgery talking—her body needed all the strength it could get and Drift _never_ turned down a free meal. Old habits died hard.

            Wing leaned into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge while Drift limped to the windows. It was a good view of the City from up here.

            _Kind of impressive_ , she grudgingly admitted. _For neutrals_.

            “Here,” Wing called. “Catch.”

            Drift caught the object coming her way. She nearly dropped it in surprise.

            “Seriously? Is this real?”

            “Yeah,” Wing said, grinning. She took a huge bite of a second apple. “It’s fresh. We grow our own food down here.”

            “And you’ve seriously never been attacked?!” Drift held the apple like a priceless treasure. She couldn’t _imagine_ how much she’d have to pay for fresh fruit back in Decepticon territory.

            “That’s why we have knights,” Wing said. “Go on. Try it.”

            Drift raised the apple to her nose and took a deep breath first, savoring it, before taking a bite. She made an involuntary noise of pleasure. It probably didn’t stack up to a real-live sun-grown apple, which she hadn’t tasted in years, but it was still pretty amazing to someone whose idea of luxury was dried fruit and cold water.

            She caught the edge of Wing’s smile as she wiped juice from her chin.

            “Not bad,” she admitted.

            “Have as much as you want,” Wing said. “What’s mine is yours.”

            Drift snorted, taking another bite and speaking through a full mouth. “You rich or something?”

            Wing laughed. “Not really. But nobody goes hungry here.”

            “Look…” Drift’s mouth twisted. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better about this, but I’m getting out of here as soon as I get the all-clear. I’m not a convert. I’m not a guest. And you’re not my friend. So let’s just get through the next couple of weeks and then you never have to see me again. Clear?”

            Wing’s smile melted away. Then it came back, a little weaker. “All right, Drift. We should both get some sleep. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [the tag](http://full-autopsy.tumblr.com/tagged/no-man%27s-land) for rambling, headcanons, artwork, et cetera. But mostly artwork.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Written In Blood and Sand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759275) by [sgri_sgri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgri_sgri/pseuds/sgri_sgri)




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